The Tempest Within
by Procyon Marie
Summary: Watson prepares for his marriage to Mary Morstan, but his bliss is marred by his concern for Holmes.


_Sometimes one of the most difficult things to grapple with aren't those created by the criminal underworld. Quite a few times, the most challenging case is brought up by the soul, and the hardest culprit to capture is one's own self._

_This tale from my personal memoirs is quite unlike the chronicles I've put before the public in the past. Now that my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has finally retired, it may be time my readers were allowed, not just a glimpse, as in _The Three Garridebs_ and _The Devil's Foot_, of the friend Holmes was, but a full view, and one from our earlier days together, before the foremost champion of the law of our times settled accounts with Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime._

_John H. Watson, M.D.  
Late of the Army Medical Department  
_

**The Tempest Within**

It is perhaps a trifle that most of my readers do not think about, but one reason my chronicles are so thoroughly told with the conversations practically verbatim is because of my journal, which I immediately fill with my first impressions of my illustrious friend's adventures. However, these being rough drafts of everything, when came the time to write my official chronicles for publishing by _The Strand_, I find that there are details I inevitably have to omit, often for the personal protection of some involved party. Typically, it was to shield the client, and other times, it was for Holmes himself because of certain unlawful acts necessary for him to arrive at his results. Rarely was it ever for something closer to myself and to my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, but it has happened at least once, as this narrative will tell.

Those who have read the account of _The Sign of Four_ are aware that it was in that particular adventure that I found the soul that some greater power had tied to mine before time began. Of all the fair clients that Holmes ever entertained, only Miss Mary Morstan impressed me so deeply in so short a time. It was not that she was singularly beautiful, though in my eyes, she was. It was something more spiritual, something that lingers in the air even now that she has passed on.

Among my notes of that particular case in 1888 are my journal entries where I freely wrote my thoughts and dare I say it, emotions of the time. As one may surmise, there were much more of the latter. Love does something to a man. If my notes are to be taken as those of a sane person, one would infer that it makes him more observant of the kind of trifles my friend Holmes might frown at. In this tattered tome in front of me, I find scribbles of how glorious, how "like molten gold, heated to a brilliant, passionate red" the sunset seemed on one of the days I had dinner at Mrs. Cecil Forrester's, where my beloved was employed. I also find lists of the little things I needed to purchase and pertinent appointments I had to attend, all in preparation for my nuptials.

Then, in the midst of all those light-hearted lines, there is this: _Speak with Holmes_.

One thing difficult to have in times of joy is a friend who is anything but happy. Sherlock Holmes had not exactly congratulated me on my engagement, but he did approve of my choice. But I, who had learned to read his moods, knew that his smile was forced. It was when I noticed that his supply of cocaine had decreased significantly faster than normal that I had jotted down that note. Time, with its infinite wisdom, did smooth the creases out by handing him case after case, all of which kept his mind busy up until the time of my marriage and shortly after. Nevertheless, I continued to be concerned about how my friend would fare.

I never fancied myself to be completely indispensable, but I did not like the way he was reacting to the prospect of my leaving Baker Street and to, it seemed to me, anything I would bring up that was related to my marriage. I have never written about this before, but I must say that it was always one of my greatest dreaded fears to find Holmes in such a state of drugged inebriation that his brain might never recover. As one of the only medical practitioners he would listen to, I was responsible; as a friend, I was even more bound to make sure that never happened. So I tried to corner him long enough to talk with him.

However, when you are up against one of the finest minds the world has ever seen, one is destined to be frustrated. Sometimes, a client would come in. Other times, Holmes needed to pursue a lead and would not be back until after I was in bed. In these latter instances, he always said that whatever I needed to say could probably wait until the morrow. Maybe it was coincidence part of the time, but with Sherlock Holmes, coincidences were the exception, not the rule.

It was obvious that he did not want to talk about it. It was just in concurrence with Holmes' cold nature to avoid having a chat about such personal matters, but it was his health and future that I felt was at stake. I was, in fact, ready to suggest that he move in with us once we had settled down, but I knew only too well how abhorrent the very notion would be to him. And, then again, I was not too certain if Mary would agree to live with a man who did his shooting practise indoors. Soon enough—well, I did not exactly give up trying, but with everything else I had to see to, I hoped chance would smile upon me by giving me an opening for even just a brief exchange.

Finally, it came, about a month before the wedding itself. To tell the truth, I was getting a little desperate. Thoughts of postponing the wedding even flitted through my mind once or twice, though I knew that that was probably the height of childish absurdity. I arrived at Baker Street from Paddington, where I was making inquiries about acquiring a medical practise, in time for dinner. Holmes was working on one of his malodorous chemical experiments when I entered our sitting room. I could not help but wrinkle my nose at this ill-timed activity, especially because it seemed to involve sulfur.

"Holmes, I seem to recall from my chemistry classes at Edinburg that chemicals should never be handled during mealtimes. It is not only dangerous, it can also make one lose one's appetite."

He turned to me, a test tube in his hand and a weary smile on his face. "Ah Watson, if anything, the memory of this stench will make you appreciate every meal your wife will put before you." He sniffed the air and added, "It does smell something terrible, does it not?"

He put down the test tube in the wooden rack, taking care to label it and strode over to the window to let the air out. He disappeared into his room to wash his hands then came out, shut the window and joined me at the table where our meal of roasted fowl was waiting.

"So Watson," he said as he cut into his meat, "I perceive the professional prospects are good in Paddington?"

When I had left that morning, I was certain I had not told Holmes of the purpose of my trip, nor had I told him of my destination. "Holmes, I'm afraid that I am as dim as ever, more so after my journey today. I cannot even begin to imagine what led you to that conclusion. I don't suppose it would have to do with the dirt on my trousers, would it?"

He took his time chewing and swallowing the bit he was eating before answering me. "Watson, you're not quite as dim as you think. That your destination was obvious from the dirt stains is true. The fact that all the stains are of the Paddington consistency and colour and that some of the stains are drier than the others suggests that you were there all day. Now, just a few nights ago, you spoke, more to yourself than to me, of needing to find a practise soon considering your marriage is to take place in a mere month's time. When I put together that and the knowledge that St. Mary's Hospital is in that district, the deduction is a simple one. You were there to seek out your new place of work. And judging by your tired but relatively calm countenance, you were most likely successful, hence my statement."

I watched as he plunged back into his meal. While his line of logical reasoning fascinated me as it always did, one thing stood out.

"Holmes," I started hesitantly, "I didn't think you were listening."

He looked up from his nearly empty plate with an expression of mild surprise.

"That other evening," I continued, "when I was lamenting my difficulty in finding a practise to purchase. I did not think you were listening to me."

Holmes finished off the rest of his meal and stood up to pick up his clay pipe and fill it from the Persian slipper. As he did so, he held up his cocaine bottle to the light, as though to check the amount of liquid in it. He then lit his pipe and returned to the table.

"It was the cocaine that alerted you, wasn't it? Watson, I may not be drawn to the softer emotions, but where you are concerned, I cannot completely deny that I tend to make an exception."

"Holmes, I've been trying to—"

He held up a hand to stop me and said, "When I said that I could not extend my congratulations to you that night we brought in Jonathan Small, I merely meant it from my point of view. Yet, I have been observing you in these last few months and have been a witness to your bliss. I don't suppose standing in your way would be the act of a worthy gentleman or friend, would it?"

With these words, I felt my heart lighten within me. The words I'd held in for months finally burst out. "But Holmes, you would not be in the way! If I can be of assistance in any way, I must insist that you call upon me!"

My friend stood up with a smile. "So that is what you've been wanting to tell me." He went over to the fireplace to refill his pipe. "Well, my dear fellow, you've had a long day, so you ought to go up to sleep. And take this with you, if you wish. Think of it as a pledge to try and stop." He held out to me the small bottle from the mantelpiece with a lopsided grin on his face.

My spirits were somewhat put to rest so I stood up from the empty table and reached out to take the vial which had stood as my enemy for quite some time. But, as I started to move toward the door, he said as he put his pipe down, "Watson, in the earlier days of our friendship, you put down my knowledge of literature at nil, so perhaps you can help me. Was it not in _The Tempest_ that the Bard wrote, 'I would not wish any companion in the world but you'?"

I could not believe my ears. There were depths about Holmes that I obviously had yet to tap.

"Quite so, Holmes. Quite so."

As I ascended the steps to my bedroom, I heard Holmes start to play one of my favourite compositions. With a smile on my lips and that familiar thrill of excitement in my soul, I knew somehow that we were far from closing the book on our adventures. The best of them were yet to come.

**A/N:** This is my first Watsonian attempt at Sherlock Holmes writing I don't know if a disclaimer is needed, but just in case...well, we all know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was the brilliant gentleman behind Holmes and Watson, right?


End file.
